


The Deadly Doubts of Aziraphale

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety, Don't copy to another site, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Rollercoaster, M/M, Romance, Self-Doubt, attempted sexual assault in a dream, mild horror imagery, mild violence, other characters appear only in dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-09-23 01:22:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20331712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: After they survive the Holy Water and Hellfire, Aziraphale and Crowley find it hard to be away from one another, constantly plagued by the paranoia that they'll lose each other again. But now, at this new stage in their existence, mostly free, something has started to trouble Aziraphale, something that manages to unearth every single one of his fears, driving him down paths that make him question everything he believes about him and his relationship with his demon.





	1. Chapter 1

“Bed or sofa, angel?”

Aziraphale doesn’t catch the question the first time even though there’s only four words involved, and none of them that complicated. He hears Crowley speak and that causes him to look up, but that’s as far as his comprehension goes.

“Hmm? Wha---what was that?”

“Where would you like to sleep?” Crowley clarifies. “The bed? Or the sofa?”

“Oh. I … um … hmm …” It’s a simple question. Aziraphale recognizes that. But he’s so lost to the thoughts in his head that he can’t formulate a simple answer. It’s as if Crowley had posed the question in Babylonian, and Aziraphale misplaced the proper wheel to decipher it. His brain has taken this simple task and made it monumental for no reason whatsoever.

But that’s par for the course, because very little feels _simple_ anymore.

They’d driven for quite a while in absolute silence after their lunch at the Ritz. Pleasant conversation distracted them throughout their meal, but during a pause while their waiter poured their third round of champagne, their minds meandered back to recent unpleasantness at roughly the same time – Aziraphale recalling the look on Crowley’s face when he said he’d go off to the stars and not even think about him; Crowley remembering what it felt like to drop to his knees in Aziraphale’s burning bookshop thinking his best friend was gone. _Truly_ gone. 

They’d had yet to admit it out loud, but facing the possibility of their own total demises wasn’t their biggest fear.

Losing one another, being left alone on Earth, was.

After lunch, they’d climbed into Crowley’s Bentley, their destination clear. Crowley would take Aziraphale back to his bookshop. They’d talk and talk and talk about everything and nothing for a while longer, skirting the darker issues at hand. Then they’d either get drunk or Crowley would leave, go home to his plants, the stark loneliness of his flat, and whatever nightmares decided to creep into his head while he waited for morning to come.

Crowley couldn’t face that, nor did he want to. When it came down to it - his wants and needs compacted till they could fit on the head of a pin - he wanted to stay with Aziraphale.

It took him over an hour of weaving in and out of city traffic to invite Aziraphale over, as a favor to him he’d said, and since Aziraphale had nothing in the way of plans, he accepted.

Privately, he was grateful he didn’t have to spend the night alone.

“I don’t want to put you out of your bed,” Aziraphale insists.

“Nonsense. You’re doing me a favor, staying over and all,” Crowley says, voicing the shallow truth; the deeper truth, like a bezoar in the stomach, too painful to unearth. “And Satan knows I’ve put you out of your bed enough times. It’s the least I can do.”

“If _I_ take the bed, where would _you_ sleep?”

“To be honest, I don’t sleep that much anymore.” Crowley stares down at the floor beneath his feet, the immaculately polished surface evidence of how little time he spends there. Most of his time, as of late, has been spent in Aziraphale’s shop - which is, by far, more homey than his flat has ever been – drinking himself to oblivion. Or in his car, driving to nowhere and thinking about the future, which, for a while, seemed to be headed in the same direction. “Who knows? I probably won’t sleep at all tonight.” Crowley glances up, catching Aziraphale’s eyes looking back at him. They’re a clearer blue than he’s ever seen them - a shimmering pale blue like the summer sky after an unexpected storm. Their color endures even with this dim light forcing his pupils to shove it aside. But they’re sad, too; heavily laden with worry and exhaustion. “I could sleep in here with you, if you’d like. On the floor, or in a chair. If you don’t want to be alone, that is.”

“The last time I was here, we both got drunk and fell asleep on the sofa,” Aziraphale recalls with a soft chuckle.

“I remember.” Crowley raises a hand to rub his shoulder. “Or, more specifically, my _shoulder_ remembers.”

Aziraphale thinks it over, that same conflicted expression from the bus stop on his face. And like that time, he shakes his head. “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. You should take the bed. I’ll take the sofa.”

“But the sofa’s crap!”

“Then you shouldn’t be sleeping on it.”

“Neither should you. Urgh!” Crowley grabs two handfuls of hair and pulls in frustration. “We’re going around in circles, angel!” He searches his room for a solution and finds it in the form of nine identical Burgundy bottles on his bedside table – the walking wounded from many a battle with long, sleepless nights. “How about this …” Crowley grabs a soldier, kicks off his shoes, and drops down on the mattress “… lets you and me sit here together and get to the end of this bottle. If we’re still conscious by then, we’ll start in on the next, and so on and so on. Whoever falls asleep wherever, that’s where they’ll stay. How’s that hit ya?”

Aziraphale shakes his weary head. From a grammatical standpoint, only part of that sentence made sense. “I think I can do that.”

“There we go!” Crowley relaxes into the pillows lumped behind his back, finding the comfortable spot on his side of the mattress with a serpentine wiggle of his long body. He miracles the cork out of the bottle, but instead of taking the first gulp, he gives that honor to Aziraphale. “_That’s_ the Aziraphale I know! And don’t worry – there’s plenty more where _that_ came from.”

“I’m not worried.” Aziraphale toes off his own shoes and stows them under the bed. Then he lowers himself gingerly to the mattress and accepts the bottle. If Crowley were human, Aziraphale would say he has a drinking problem. As supernatural entities, it’s more like an inconvenience. Alcohol and sleep – two of the main reasons why the 1800s remain mainly a blur in Crowley’s mind – not that he’d admit to caring. Because he doesn’t. “There always is.”

***

_“Who do you think you are?”_

“I’m … I’m sorry?” Aziraphale looks up from his book, his head throbbing from the after effects of too much alcohol and too little sleep. Or perceived need of sleep. Either way, the combination of the two is making the words on the page in front of him swim. What is he reading anyway? He flips the book over to examine the cover but it’s blank. Spine too. Offhand, he can’t recall the last book he touched but he knows it wasn’t red, which the cover of this one is.

So what book is _this_?

“I said _you who in the Heaven do you think you are_?” Gabriel, looming over him as if on high, glares with a cool white fire in his eyes, balled fists pressing into his hips with none of the Archangel’s usual care for his finely tailored suit.

_There’s a sin if ever I saw one_, Aziraphale thinks as he eyes the wrinkles that would otherwise ruin the jacket if Gabriel didn’t have the power to miracle them away. 

“I … I am the Principality Aziraphale,” Aziraphale answers, as unsure of this question as he had been about Crowley’s _bed or sofa_ question hours before. No matter how hard he tries, his mind won’t let it make sense.

Aside from that, he can’t shake the feeling he’s in trouble, but he’s not sure why.

Correction - he knows he’s done things that would get him in trouble, but which one in particular is Gabriel scolding him over this time?

Aziraphale scans the park for Crowley, from the ice cream vendor to the east down to the bandstand in the west. He should have been here to meet him at this park bench over an hour ago. There is, as always, a certain greatness to his lateness, this time especially, but he never makes Aziraphale wait more than half-an-hour; forty-five minutes tops. Unless he hits traffic on the M25, but he only has himself to blame for that. Perhaps he _is_ here, saw Gabriel approaching and decided to stand by, keep a close eye till he left. Or wait for an opportunity to make some mischief, a thought that turns Aziraphale’s insides to jelly. He doesn’t need that sort of interference. Not now. “I inspire humanity.”

“Inspire humanity?” Gabriel laughs. “That’s a joke! You couldn’t inspire anything except the opening of a new all-you-can-eat buffet!”

Aziraphale puts his book down, fussing with the edges of his coat in a subconscious attempt to pull them closed. He can’t, and that adds emphasis to Gabriel’s taunt. Aziraphale should let it slide. Gabriel is his superior after all.

But he can’t today.

Today he’s not having it.

Why today is different from any other day preceding it, Aziraphale doesn’t know, but it _is,_ he’s decided. He straightens his shoulders, feeling more of his spine than normal, and says: “Is there something specific you’ve come to jeer at me about? Or is this simply a social call?”

“You don’t get to talk to me like that, you nitwit! We’re not _equals_!” Gabriel growls, hovering uncomfortably close. “You may think you’re hot stuff because you averted the Apocalypse with big talk about God’s _ineffable_ plan! But guess what, sunshine? No one’s amused! Not God, and definitely not _me_!”

“So you’re saying your opinion on the matter is more important than God’s?” Aziraphale asks, genuinely eager for an answer. But Gabriel, as usual, doesn’t feel obliged to give him one.

“I’m on to you. You may have gotten away with facing judgement for now, but I’ll find out how you did it. I’ll find out how you survived the Hellfire, and then you and your demon will perish together.”

“Yes, well, good luck with that,” Aziraphale says, quoting a turn-of-phrase he’d heard on something Crowley introduced him to called _YouTube_. Aziraphale calmly goes back to reading his book - or attempting to. The words on the page have gone from liquid-y black marks to tiny darkling beetles marching their way across his page, sometimes stopping to form the most obscene words in the English language. He turns the page, hoping to be rid of them, silently dismissing the Archangel seething beside him, but Gabriel doesn’t back down.

“We may have gotten it wrong last time, Aziraphale, but next time, we’ll kill you. See, I’m convinced the two of you managed to switch bodies somehow …”

Aziraphale goes cold from the ends of his hair to the soles of his feet. In an unfortunate turn of events, his wings unfurl from beneath his coat regardless of who may see as fight or flight kicks in, flight winning since Aziraphale knows he can’t battle an Archangel and win. Gabriel is baiting him. Aziraphale knows that, too. Gabriel doesn’t know for sure what he and Crowley did. He’s testing out a theory, gauging Aziraphale’s reaction to see if he’s correct.

And Aziraphale, too scared to lie convincingly, is giving them away.

“So what I propose we do is …” Gabriel inches closer, his voice dropping below his breath so only the two of them can hear “… we tie the two of you together and light you with Hellfire. Then we’ll douse whatever’s left with Holy Water. This way, one of you gets to watch the other die before they get banished from the universe.” Aziraphale swallows hard, and Gabriel’s grin spreads monstrously. “I’m betting by the sickened look on your pathetic face that you’d go first in that scenario.” Gabriel tuts in Aziraphale’s ear, the sound like the dull thud of a bomb impacting the ground before it goes off. “Too bad, too. Originally, I wanted you to watch your demon die, but I think it would be so poetic for him to watch you die. You appreciate poeticism, right? That’s why you sell those stupid books in that stupid human shop of yours.”

Aziraphale closes the red book on its foul-bodied little insects and hugs it to his chest, holding hard as a talisman of strength so he can face down the Archangel. It doesn’t provide much in the way of comfort. Crowley would give him more if he were there (the _bastard_!). But Aziraphale looks at Gabriel nonetheless, meets him eye to eye, terribly pleased with himself in the face of Aziraphale’s obvious fear.

“It’s a gamble,” Gabriel continues, sliding the words off his tongue slowly, relishing this moment, “but we’ll just roll the dice and see who wins.”

“D-don’t you dare bring Crowley into this!” Aziraphale demands. “He did nothing wrong! _I_ did nothing wrong! We saved the world! Isn’t that what angels are supposed to do?”

“Don’t you dare blaspheme the title _Angel_ by lumping your demon in with us!”

“He’s angel stock!” Aziraphale declares defiantly, voice shaking with anger and disgust. “And since he did what he did for the greater good, the term applies!”

“He’s a servant of Evil! By definition, he’s done something wrong, even if it reads as good to a soft-brained half-wit such as yourself! And speaking of _you_ …”

“I am an Angel of God! Guardian of the Eastern Gate, whether you like it or not!”

“Wrong! You’re _soft_! You’re _weak_! And seeing as Eden no longer exists, there is no Eastern Gate for you to guard! It’s an empty title for an empty angel! And Heaven no longer has any need of you!”

Aziraphale bolts up from the bench, intent on running. He knows it’s a stupid plan as Gabriel runs every day and Aziraphale only runs when chased. Even then it’s negotiable depending upon what’s chasing him. Whatever he can’t elude by wit, charm, boredom, or aggravation deserves to catch him, in Aziraphale’s opinion.

And if it does, he has a wily old serpent about to help him out of any real jam.

Speaking of …

Aziraphale’s eyes dart left and right, but he sees neither flaming red hair nor snakeskin shoe of Crowley.

There are more than likely other angels around, lying in wait, ready to pounce if he somehow does get away, but he has to try. God in Heaven! If Crowley _is_ hiding out somewhere waiting to do something, he wishes he’d _do something_!

Unless other angels have found him and whisked him away already!

Aziraphale doesn’t get a step away before Gabriel grabs hold of his wing and pulls hard. It doesn’t hurt. Aziraphale doesn’t feel anything, only pressure at his shoulder. But the ripping sound that accompanies it makes Aziraphale’s stomach turn over seven times then sink to his ankles.

“No! Stop! You mustn’t!” he cries, gasping when Gabriel dislodges his right wing and tosses it to the ground.

“Oh, but I am!” Gabriel starts in on the left. Aziraphale turns to avoid him but stumbles, heavier on one side than the other. “As of right now, you are _Fallen_!”

“I’m … I’m a _demon_?”

“Worse. You’re _human_. Now you can ingest all the vile mortal food stuffs you desire.” Gabriel snickers. “You might as well. Isn’t that what humans do for comfort? And you’re going to need it. I don’t think your demon is going to want anything to do with you now.”

Aziraphale watches, eyes wide with horror, as what’s left of his last remaining wing falls to the ground, shedding feathers into the passing breeze, leaving behind nothing but white-washed bone.

“No …” he gasps, shaking his head, reaching an arm behind him to feel for himself because it can’t be true. This can’t be real. Gabriel didn’t remove his wings. He didn’t make him _mortal_! Aziraphale has never heard of it. It can’t be possible. Gabriel doesn’t have that kind of power! Except …

He’d said God wasn’t amused. What if this was part of Her plan? A test, but of _him_, not humanity?

Test to destruction. That’s what Crowley says.

And this would work.

Being cast out of Heaven would destroy him.

Gabriel’s laughter echoes in Aziraphale’s ears as he spins in place, wrenching his arm behind his back in search of any evidence of his wings. But he doesn’t feel a thing – not a single bone, not a single feather.

They’re gone. Tossed away like common trash.

Whatever Grace he had, his Divinity, has been ripped away.

Somewhere in the annals of human history overseen by the angels, where the stories of their lives are kept, a new book has been created, birthed from thin air and opened to a clean page.

And the story of his life, whatever time he has left, is being written.

“No …” he mutters, locked betwixt shock and desperation; the future he’d hoped for, the one he’d fought so hard to win back and not just for him – for _everyone_ – gone in an instant.

“No …” What the heck just happened!?

“No …” And where the Heaven is Crowley!? Why isn’t he here!?

“No …” He always manages to bound in at the last minute and pull Aziraphale’s feet out of the fire. He’d been so good at it in the past, he’d done it during times when Aziraphale didn’t know he needed rescuing.

“No …” But not this time, when Aziraphale needed him most. Why? _Why_!?

“_No_!”

***

“_No_!”

Aziraphale wakes with a start, a scream stuck in his throat that, thankfully, doesn’t gain traction. It stops just short of his uvula and lingers, but ends up gathering with a collection of other screams, forming the rock-hard lump clogging his throat and amplifying the ache in his chest.

He looks around, up and down, feels for the world around him, all that he can reach – his legs, stomach, head, the comforter beneath him, a bottle beside him, and to his right, a body. Aziraphale’s eyes snap to it, and he sighs in relief.

He knows where he is.

He’s in Crowley’s bedroom, the demon himself asleep beside him, lying flat on his back in the clothes he wore last night minus his jacket, his hands clasped together on his stomach, two more empty bottles lying between them.

He raises his arms and reaches behind him, sides screaming as Aziraphale pushes them beyond their corporeal abilities, fingertips searching for any hint that he’s in possession of his wings. But he feels nothing. He drops his arms and sighs. The best way to check his wings is to, of course, bring them out, but if he unfurls them here, he’ll smack Crowley in the face.

Probably not the greatest way to wake up, second to the hangover Aziraphale predicts he’ll have.

Aziraphale starts scooting his way off the bed, his aim to head to the bathroom and examine himself in Crowley’s enormous wall mirror. He sticks his left leg out then over till his foot touches the floor, doing his best not to shift the bed. He lucks out in that department. Whatever pricey mattress Crowley chose for this bed he rarely sleeps in is so firm, it doesn’t budge beneath him. But his journey isn’t without obstacles. His knee hits another empty bottle. He holds his breath and watches it, not enough mental faculty left in him to think to reach out and grab it. It rolls to the side, stopping shy of the edge, but doesn’t go over. Aziraphale secures it, setting it gently on its bottom on the floor.

He stands up, shakes out his sleepy legs and frozen joints, and tiptoes to the bathroom. He takes off his coat and hangs it on a hook inside the door. He stands in front of the mirror, scrutinizing his face, his eyes, his hair for any clue that he might no longer be an angel. He feels like an angel, although he can’t honestly say he knows what _not an angel_ would feel like.

He’s been living amongst humans, but he’s never been human, so he has no reliable frame of reference.

He takes a deep breath, preparing himself mentally for what he may or may not see. He counts to three and thinks his wings into existence. They unfurl, stretching out full and white from side to side, as beautiful, if he does say so himself, as the last time he saw them.

“Oh, thank God,” he whispers, falling forward slightly, leaning against the counter with his palms pressed against the edge, the pain of it drilling into his head that he is indeed awake, and that his wings are not a dream.

Losing them was.

But it felt so real. Could it, on some level, have been a warning?

“There you are,” a rough voice says from the shadows. “I thought you might have left.” Crowley stammers in, a hand pushing his hair off his forehead, the lines on his face making him look like he may have woken in much the same way Aziraphale did. And then to find him gone?

Aziraphale feels awful about that.

“I’d never leave while you slept. That would be cruel.”

“Are you planning on taking a little morning fly around the block or …?” Crowley blinks his yellow eyes, peering at the angel’s face in the mirror. “Aziraphale, are you all right?”

“Yes. Fine. Perfectly. I just needed to check …”

“Is there something wrong with your wings?”

“No. No, I … nothing. I’m good. Wings are fine.”

“Well …” Crowley runs a hand down his tired face “… did you want to come back to bed? Get a few more hours’ shuteye? I could miracle you up some pajamas if that would help.”

“No. I think, maybe, I’ve slept enough.”

“All right.” Crowley rubs his hands down his face vigorously, determined to wake up though he looks like he could use a couple more hours himself. “I could whip us up a spot of breakfast.” Crowley’s fuzzy brain recounts the contents of his refrigerator at present – wine, more wine, but possibly some eggs. He’s not certain that they’re chicken eggs, or edible, but they’re ovoid in shape. He might have some cheese stuck in there, too … which is to say he had a container of milk he bought ages ago, so hypothetically it would have turned to cheese by now. “I mean, I could order us something. Have it delivered.”

“Yes, yes. That sounds lovely,” Aziraphale replies, barely listening, “but before you do, could you do me a favor?”

“Name it.”

“Could you … give my wing a tug?”

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up to the fire-line of his hair. “You want me to what now?”

“Grab it by the top and pull on it. As hard as you can. I’d do it myself, but I’m afraid it’s difficult at this angle.”

“Could you tell me why?”

“I have my reasons. I’m checking something.”

Crowley softens. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“That makes two of us. But there’s something I need to know.” Aziraphale turns, looking at Crowley straight on rather than through the reflection of the mirror. “Please?”

Crowley sighs, nodding before he can physically bring himself to say a word. “All right. If that’s what you want.”

Aziraphale makes a non-committal noise in response because it’s not what he wants. Not at all. But if he says that, if he even hints at it, Crowley might not help him.

Crowley puts his hands on Aziraphale’s right wing, carefully caressing the arch at the top with one hand while he grabs hold of the joint that attaches to his shoulder with the other. There’s a heat to Crowley’s hands that comes from his being a demon. But it’s comfortable, pleasant, reassuring ironically now that he’s preparing to pull Aziraphale’s wing off. Regardless, one thought enters Aziraphale’s mind and stays there, holding on with hooks and nails … and gentle fingers curling around edges and bends.

Having Crowley’s hands on his wing feels intimate.

“Uh … okay.” Crowley bites his lower lip. If there’s one thing in the world he’d wanted to do this morning, this isn’t it. Nowhere on the top ten list. Not even on the bottom fifty. “On the count of three then, all right?”

Aziraphale braces himself against the counter. “All right.”

“One … two … three.”

Crowley tugs with most of his might. He can’t bring himself to use all of it, his shoulder joint aching with the phantom of a similar pain when he does. He knows he has the capacity to break Aziraphale’s wing if he puts all his strength behind that pull.

He’d never forgive himself if he did.

Aziraphale yelps, a shaking hand flying to his mouth, pain fluttering his eyelids shut. Crowley has pulled the hardest he dares, but the wing doesn’t budge.

“There you are,” Crowley says, removing his hands quickly before Aziraphale asks him to do that again. “Stuck on tight. Not going anywhere.”

“Okay.” Aziraphale moves the wing in a circle, relieved when it stays fixed in place. “That’s … that answers that. Thank you.”

“No problem.” Crowley feels like a heel. Lower than a heel. He feels like a snake. But he’s a snake that would do anything to see his best friend smile again. “Might even say it’s tickety-boo.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale puts a hand to his sore shoulder and rubs. “Tickety-boo.”

“May I?” Crowley asks, replacing Aziraphale’s hand with his own when Aziraphale’s fingers fail to reach the right spot.

“Y-yes. Of course.”

Crowley massages Aziraphale’s shoulder, applying pressure in rhythmic circles, moving to where his wing meets the joint. He seems to know just where to touch, his hands warming again, and even though it crackles with demonic power, it’s still soothing.

“How does that feel, hmm? Better?”

“Yes. Much. Thank you.”

“Good.” Crowley turns Aziraphale away from the mirror, wraps his arms around him, and holds him, rocking him slightly in his embrace. He unfurls his own dark wings and wraps the angel up in them, blocking Aziraphale’s view of the mirror, grounding Aziraphale to one thing and one thing alone.

_Crowley_.

Aziraphale goes rigid, unsure what to do at this point. He knows about hugs, but he has no memory of anyone every holding him for the sole purpose of giving him comfort.

Or at all, really.

But the more Crowley holds him, the more natural it feels to melt against his body and allow himself to be held. But this instinct surmounts the physical. There’s a yin and yang to it. The angel in him can feel the demon in Crowley, Evil sizzling beneath his skin. But as a Servant of God, a Messenger, an Envoy of Love, Aziraphale feels the good in him, too. It may be latent good, or dormant good, but it’s there – a golden spark in the cold and dark, fighting for its right to exist where it shouldn’t, to re-pave a path long grown over with vines but still there, still functional, lying underneath.

“Is this all right?” Crowley asks.

“Yes. Quite.”

“I’m not making you uncomfortable, am I?”

“No. Not at all. Not a bit.”

“Good. Because we may need to do more of this … if that’s something you find agreeable.”

“I do.”

Hugging, Aziraphale decides, is nice.

And this one is better than nice.

It’s the first ever true and honest hug of Aziraphale’s existence.


	2. Chapter 2

“Crowley?”

“Yes, angel?”

“How do you feel about mortals?”

Crowley glances up from the coffee he’s stirring cream into, autumn-yellow eyes catching sight of his angel cutting his serving of crepes into identically-sized pieces. It’s been over half-an-hour and he hasn’t taken a single bite. He just keeps cutting, rearranging.

Compartmentalizing.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, how do you feel about having mortals close to you?”

“As friends?”

Aziraphale stops cutting. Crowley is close to the question Aziraphale is getting at, but not quite. The question he wants to ask is, _“How would you feel if I suddenly became mortal?”_ but there’s no reason at all to ask such a question. It’s completely illogical.

Or that’s what he thought yesterday, and the day before, and every other day before that for 600o years. There were only two options for them – either angel or demon. The idea that _Fallen_ could mean turning human had never once entered his mind. But it’s not too far outside the realm of possibility, is it? When one looks at the powers of an angel and a demon – the ability to create and the ability to deconstruct – either could be used to transform one or the other into a mortal. Aziraphale himself doesn’t know _how_ it could be done, but he’s accepted that there’s a great many things he doesn’t know.

“I suppose,” he says.

“Well, we’ve had mortals as friends before, haven’t we?” Crowley replies. “We have a few now.”

“And how do they make you feel?”

Crowley takes his spoon out of his mug, taps it on the edge, and sets it beside his plate of equally untouched food. “I try not to think about it too much, to tell you the truth.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it’s sad, isn’t it? You and I, we’re poised to be on this planet for an eternity. And they’re here for what? 60 years? 80 if they’re lucky. It’s hard having friends who are mortal. You’re having tea with them one day, then you blink an eye and they’re gone. Then their afterlife affairs get sorted out, and whatever those are, _you_ have to live with that. Heaven or Hell, _you_ get to live with knowing that wherever they end up, you probably had a hand in seeing them off there.” Crowley sighs into his cup. Suddenly he has no need for coffee. He’s much more awake than he planned to be. “So I try not to think about it. Try not to feel any sort of way about it.” Crowley stands from his chair and moves to one closer to his angel. He feels too far removed from him. In this spacious dining room with this ridiculously large table, sitting only three chairs away he feels alone. Trapped in a void. “Why?” he asks, taking Aziraphale’s fork from him, stabbing at pieces of crepe and constructing the perfect bite the way Aziraphale would. “You’re not going to try and turn yourself mortal, are you?”

“Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I can,” Aziraphale says, fishing for information. But Crowley doesn’t rebut. If he knows how it’s done, he’s not offering to share. He holds the fork out to Aziraphale and Aziraphale smiles. _So this is how it’s going to be? _he thinks. _Crowley is going to feed me_. And as absurd as that sounds, Aziraphale thinks it’s something he can get used to. He leans forward and wraps his lips around the bite, sliding it off the fork onto his waiting tongue.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, seeing a hint of Crowley’s smile before his eyelids flutter closed to enjoy this first delectable taste. Crowley may not cook, but he definitely knows how to order in. Without asking, he managed to come up with the perfect breakfast - one of Aziraphale’s favorites.

So either Aziraphale is dreadfully predictable, or they simply know one another that well.

Both are probably true, but the latter option is, by far, the most comforting.

Crowley scoots closer and Aziraphale rests his head on his shoulder, chewing happily, swallowing before he speaks.

“I’m not trying to become human,” he says, watching Crowley create another forkful for him. “I don’t think that’s an option for me.”

_I pray it’s not._

***

“Hmm. That’s odd …”

“Come again?” Aziraphale asks without looking up from his paperwork. “Is there something the matter?”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Crowley mumbles, staring out the window of Aziraphale’s shop, out onto the street.

“My dear, is there something in particular you’re wondering about?” Aziraphale carries a pile of books to the closest shelf and starts sliding them into their places. “Or have you chosen today as quote Lewis Carroll day? As a nod to spending the afternoon in my shop.”

“I have no idea what you just said, but come here and take a look.”

Aziraphale slides his last book into place, then joins Crowley at the window. He scans the street, his view marred by the lunch hour crowd racing to and fro, uncertain what Crowley finds odd.

“I’m not sure I’m seeing what you’re seeing,” he says. “Could you please tell me …?”

“_There_.” Crowley puts both hands to the sides of Aziraphale’s head and turns his face to the left, towards a recess in the building next door. Aziraphale gasps. Standing there, staring at his shop as if trying to rip it from its foundation with their minds, are three Archangels – Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon.

“What … what are they doing? Are they _spying_ on us?”

“’dunno. Wouldn’t put it past them though.”

“But _why_?”

“’dunno that either.” Crowley taps his fingers on the windowsill, the drumming of skin against weathered old wood helping him think, Aziraphale supposes. But considering his nightmare from the night before, and now these Archangels showing up, the noise adds to his anxiety. “But there’s only one way to find out.”

Crowley pushes away from the window and heads for the front door with Aziraphale hurrying after him.

“Wh---where are you going?”

“You mean, where are _we_ going?” Crowley reaches back and grabs Aziraphale’s hand. “We’re going to greet our guestsss.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale squeaks, yanking his hand away. “No! We don’t need to start trouble! Especially not with _them_!”

“Come on, angel!” Crowley grabs Aziraphale again, this time by the elbow. “I’m jussst gonna have a little fun with them.”

“Crowley, don’t!” Aziraphale squirms, trying to wrench his arm away, but Crowley is incredibly strong. How did Aziraphale never notice that before? “Crowley, stop! Crowley, I don’t think we should …!”

That last objection comes out too late, but it doesn’t matter anyway. Crowley hissing his words tells Aziraphale that he’s in no mood to listen to reason. Crowley throws the door open to the surprise of passersby and stands in the doorway, Aziraphale latched to his hip like the holster on a gun belt.

“Look, darling!” he announces loudly to the shock of the three Archangels who thought themselves invisible, loitering in their stiff and ethereal three piece suits down here in the heart of Soho. “I told you I saw them, didn’t I?” Crowley leaves Aziraphale behind to confront the trio, emerging from their hiding spot with the nerve to look smug. “It’s our old friends – Humpty, Dumpty, and …” He steps up to Sandalphon, tilting his head, weaving forward and back, examining the Archangel’s face the way a snake examines a large rat “… I don’t actually know what your name is, so I’ll just call you Moe. You look like a Moe, to be honest, what with your balding head and your gut.” Sandalphon sneers. Crowley grins. “I have questions about that, by the way. I mean, you’re an Archangel, aren’t you? You could give yourself a full head of hair, can’t ya? Anyway … we …” Crowley turns and gestures to Aziraphale, including him in the conversation “… were just sitting down to a nice cuppa tea and wondered if you would like to join us.”

“We have no business with you, _demon,”_ Michael declares. “We were just passing through.”

“Oh. Just passing through, were you? No business with us?” Crowley’s grin falls with each word, becoming more and more grave as his sarcasm fades. “Well, you see, that’s a shame, because _I_ have some business with the three of you.”

“Really?” Michael puffs up their chest. “And what business would that be?”

“The way you treat my angel.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Michael’s eyes dart in a rather suspicious way, but their arrogance, their utter self-righteousness, shines through regardless, and Crowley can’t help chuckling. He recalls his conversation with Gabriel when he was dragged to Heaven as Aziraphale, one quote specifically leaping to mind: “Don’t talk to me about the greater good, sunshine. I’m the Archangel Fucking Gabriel.” That pretty much explains everything with regard to how these nutters behave. However they treat Aziraphale, they don’t seem to believe they’ve done anything wrong.

_They_ are the greater good, and ergo, blameless.

They still don’t seem to appreciate being called out on it though.

Crowley points a finger at Sandalphon, glaring back at him unamused through this entire exchange. “_You_ hit him. Punched him in the stomach, didn’t you?” The Archangel’s face goes white, not expecting that to come up apparently. But before they have a chance to speak on their behalf, Crowley points his finger at Uriel. “And you … you pushed him up against that wall.” Crowley gestures behind him, but Uriel’s eyes stay glued to Crowley’s face as if they were a deer, and Crowley an 18-wheeler barreling towards them at a-hundred-and-ten. Then he turns on Michael. “And you. You bastard! You _told_ on me!”

Michael pulls themselves up straight. “So what if I did? _I_ have a job to do. And unlike _some_ angels, _I_ take my job seriously---”

“Whether you guys like it or not, Aziraphale _is_ an angel,” Crowley interrupts, not in the mood to hear their lame arguments. “He’s one of you. A better one than any of _you_, if you ask me.”

“No one asked you,” Uriel says.

“You’re sssupposed to be on the sssame ssside!”

“He’s more Fallen than angel nowadays,” Michael points out. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Crowley turns his yellow eyes Michael’s way, staring them down, unblinkingly, over the rim of his glasses.

“Last I checked, he still has his wings. Big, white, impressive wings.”

Crowley smirks at how unintentionally suggestive that sounds, the Archangels in front of him scowling in various degrees of discomfort.

“But you guys,” he continues, “you get the titles and the accolades and the corner offices with the view. None of that matters to him, though. He just wants to do his job and do it well. 6000 years I’ve known him to be insufferably good and kind and diligent. Speaking of which, let me ask you all something …” Crowley creeps forward a step with every word, backing the three Archangels up against the side of a lorry parked by the curb “… what does it say when one of your own, one of the _good guys_, prays for help, asks for guidance, and a _demon_ answers? Hmm? Not just once, not just twice. But over … and over … and over again?”

He milks that one because it, too, sounds suggestive, all three Archangels looking about ready to dissolve into thin air.

“What does it say about your God? Maybe that’s something you should think about when you evaporate away.”

“You’re not going to get away with this,” Michael says. “You know that, don’t you?”

Crowley looks left and right for effect. “Get away with what, hmm? Tell me. What are we doing wrong?”

“You know what you’re doing,” Uriel insists.

“Right. But _you_ don’t. And if it were wrong, again, why does he still have his wings?” Crowley snickers. “Again, you don’t know. For all your power and status and supposed omnipotence, you know _nothing_.” Crowley hisses, backing away. “Well, if you guys aren’t coming inside for tea, I’ll have to bid you adieu. I have an angel to _fraternize_ with, after all.”

“You _will_ pay one of these days,” Michael says while light from above begins to trickle down over them, heralding their exit.

“And what are you going to do? Throw Holy Water at me? I think both you and I know _that’s_ not going to do much of anything. At least you’ll be there to miracle me another towel. Never get tired of that.” Crowley waves sharply, then turns towards the shop. The door ahead of him is shut, Aziraphale nowhere to be seen. Crowley’s not mad about that. He doesn’t blame the poor guy. In retrospect, Crowley probably could have handled this differently, better actually, but he’s well past his breaking point. Angels and demons alike can come after him all they want, but this hounding Aziraphale needs to end. Enough is enough. “Cheers, mates! Be good little messenger angels and give Heaven our regards, won’t you?”

Crowley snaps his fingers, opening the door to Aziraphale’s shop. It’s overkill, of course. He doesn’t need to use his power to open a door. But he’s making a point. He still has his magic, if they didn’t already know. Hell hasn’t found a way to take that from him.

So they’d better watch their steps, if they know what’s good for them.

He slams the door behind him. Aziraphale, watching the whole performance from a nearby window, jumps a foot in the air.

“S-so,” he says as Crowley comes close – too close for comfort at a time like this, crowding into his space, even putting an arm around him as the entourage outside watches on. “Did you find out what they wanted?”

“Nah. They said they were just passing through.”

“Were they?”

“Not likely. I invited them in for tea. They declined.” Crowley leans in, determination in his eyes, pushing Aziraphale against his arm with the whole of his body, bending him in such a way that, from the outside, it must look like he’s about to kiss him. He pulls down the shade as he moves in farther, blocking the trio’s view of demon and angel, leaving them to speculate what happens next.

But now here they are, Aziraphale locked in Crowley’s embrace, the demon panting hard down Aziraphale’s neck. And Aziraphale, eyes on Crowley’s lips, turns the brightest shade of salmon any being has ever turned without actually being a salmon.

“Were you in the mood for some tea?” Aziraphale stutters, finding himself breathless with Crowley’s mouth so close to his own. “I---I could put the kettle on, lickety split, i---if that’s what you want.”

Crowley doesn’t answer, eyes skimming Aziraphale’s face, thoughts of undetermined origin swirling through his head. Aziraphale can see them in his eyes – conflict, confusion, consternation.

But then finally acceptance.

He stands, setting Aziraphale upright. His eyes do another once over of Aziraphale’s face, searching for something, but he shakes his head … and lets go.

“Screw the tea,” he says, storming off towards Aziraphale’s back room. “Where’s the brandy?”

Aziraphale’s shoulders slump. He feels oddly bereft. “Where it always is,” he says, switching the _open_ sign to _closed_. “By all means, help yourself.”

***

“Now, now, now, look who we have here?”

“What a coincidence! May we sit?”

Aziraphale looks up, eyes blurry, brain inside his skull listing like oddly-shaped boxes stacked one on top of the other, but only by their bitter edges. And though he’s tempted to write that off as the symptom of another hangover, he knows better this time around.

He’s sitting on the same park bench, at the same time of day, wearing the same clothes (although that’s not really unusual), and in his hands he holds the same red book, no more legible this time than the last. Except instead of Gabriel standing over him, Michael and Uriel are, wearing the same conceited expressions from this afternoon.

The only thing Aziraphale doesn’t understand is why? He rarely dreams, and he almost never has nightmares. Of course, he rarely ever sleeps. But when he does, he never dreams two days in a row. The idea that this may be some sort of warning comes back again in force as Uriel and Michael sit down, one on each side of him, without being invited.

“Waiting for your boyfriend in the dark glasses, are you?” Uriel asks, wicked smile brewing on their lips.

“Must be,” Michael answers for him. “And I think I finally understand why. He’s quite the dish, isn’t he?”

Aziraphale sits bolt upright, no longer blurry-eyed as that comment knocks him clear out of his socks. “Come again?”

“You know, Aziraphale, the Archangels have a pool going,” Uriel picks up, “and we’ve all been wondering – have you guys done the deed yet?”

That comment effectively removes his shoes as well. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh come on, Aziraphale! Don’t be such a prude. We’re all friends here.”

“Uh …” Aziraphale laughs uncomfortably “… no. No, we’re not.”

“Well, we should be.” Uriel puts out a hand to touch Aziraphale’s knee but doesn’t, patting the air above it instead. “Your demon said so himself.”

“Did he now?” Aziraphale shifts in his seat, wishing they had both sat on the same side so he could inch his way off the bench, but that’s probably what they were betting on when they chose this seating arrangement.

“I don’t think he’s going to tell us, Michael,” Uriel says to their companion.

“Pity,” Michael replies. “But that’s all right. We both know the answer, don’t we? _Everybody_ knows.” They fix their eyes on Aziraphale’s face. “Your demon won’t even touch you, will he?”

“Of course not,” Uriel says. “Why would he? You’re more like his little pet, aren’t you, regardless of what he had you believe.” 

“Wha---what? What do _you_ know about it?” Aziraphale asks, but he’s not sure _why_ he’s asking. He knows this is a trick. He doesn’t care to hear what they have to say. But he can’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth. It’s like he has no choice. He’s not thinking for himself. He’s an actor in a show, one that’s airing as they speak, his part already recorded. He’s just watching it play out from the best seat in the house. “How do you know anything about us? About our relationship?”

Michael shrugs, but they smile wide, fueled by whatever little secret they think they’re holding over him. “Your demon still checks in from time to time. And the powers below and I – we’ve become quite friendly as of late.”

“You can teach a viper to eat from your hands,” Uriel says, “but you can’t take away how much it likes to bite.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows leap up his forehead at the Archangel’s strange choice of quote. “And what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“For the love of all that’s Holy, Aziraphale, do you even know what a demon _does_?”

Aziraphale wraps his arms around his book and hugs it. This time, it lets out a little growl, but it doesn’t seem to be aimed at him, for which he’s grateful.

He needs someone on his side right now.

But he has no problem answering this question. On the subject of demons and the jobs they do, he feels somewhat expert. “He tempts people. Leads them astray.”

“Guided by the deadly sins,” Michael adds.

“Sometimes,” Aziraphale corrects. “There’s a lot of nuance to it. A lot of _grey_ areas.”

“Do you know what the deadly sins are?” Uriel asks.

Aziraphale scoffs. “Of course I do. All angels do.”

“Name them,” Michael demands. “Show me that you know.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but starts spouting them off anyway. “Greed, gluttony, sloth, wrath, envy, pride, and …” He stops when he gets to the last one, the point they’re trying to make becoming clear.

“_And_ …?”

“Lust.”

Michael’s grin widens. Aziraphale swears that if they opened their mouth, they’d have fangs.

“That’s right,” they say. “And how do you think he accomplished that little temptation, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale isn’t quick to answer. He knows how _he_ cast temptations when tempting was required, but, to be honest, he couldn’t speak on Crowley’s behalf because they never discussed it. And yet, even though they didn’t trade notes, Aziraphale let himself believe they were on the same page. But they couldn’t be, could they? Because Aziraphale wasn’t a demon. He was an angel casting temptations.

But Crowley – tempting was his job. His sole purpose.

“Oh no!” Michael chirps with glee. “You didn’t actually think that in the whole of 6000 years that he hadn’t …?” Aziraphale turns away, gazing off into the distance, unable to meet their eyes again, and Michael giggles. “You did, didn’t you? You poor naïve bastard you! That’s so adorable!”

“I know how demons inspire lust,” Aziraphale says, defending himself, his _position_, with a lie. “Bath houses and skin shops and strip clubs …” His voice fails because he’s seen Crowley come out of a strip club before, but he overlooked it.

Because as much as he cared about Crowley, the subject of _them_ hadn’t been an issue yet.

And didn’t flirty-too-much Fraulein What’s-Her-Face say that Crowley’s reputation preceded him?

Which reputation was she referring to exactly?

Aziraphale never felt a reason to ask.

“And those X-rated book stores that open up down the block from elementary schools,” Uriel points out. “The ones that drive pedophiles straight to playgrounds. Your boyfriend is responsible for those, too.”

“He puts temptations in people’s minds,” Aziraphale explains, too crushed at only realizing all this now to be disgusted with himself for defending the actions of a demon, actions that may have put innocent children in danger, regardless of whether that demon was Crowley or not. “Inspires them to act on their baser desires. B-b-but they’re still subject to free will. _God’s_ free will. They’re not required to act on those temptations. If they do, they’re Evil anyway, whether they ever cross paths with a demon or not.”

Uriel and Michael share a look. “Fair point,” Uriel says. “But did you know your boyfriend often took a more, let’s say, _hands on_ approach to his tempting?”

“Think about it, Aziraphale,” Michael rushes in before Aziraphale can argue, “6000 years times how many people do you think?” Michael directs the question to Uriel, but keeps their eyes on Aziraphale, enjoying the devastation building in his expression as he steadily strangles the whimpering book in his arms. “Even if it was only one person a year, that would be 6000 people. I imagine he managed it. If I remember correctly, he was one of Satan’s favorites. There had to be a reason for that.”

“Y-yes,” Aziraphale says with nearly no hope left in him at all. “It was … it was because of the M25.”

“Really?” Michael snorts. “You’re honestly convinced that the demon Crowley became Satan’s favorite for destroying the daily commute of approximately point-eighty-eight percent of the world’s population?”

Aziraphale clears his throat, trying to dig up whatever semblance of a voice he has remaining to answer their question. “I … I do.”

Michael snickers. Uriel shakes their head.

“Right.”

***

When Aziraphale opens his eyes, he’s reclining on the sofa in his back room with Crowley asleep beside him, the demon a mess of long limbs draped everywhere with his head resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder. It’s peaceful, quiet, the traffic outside long since died down. But even though he’s more familiar with these surroundings, he feels hemmed in, like the walls are closing in on him. His body feels warm, but his head feels cold, the resulting dizziness it creates foreign to him. He doesn’t feel hungover.

He feels _run_ over by something massive, like by a commuter train.

He needs a moment. He needs to take a breath, open his eyes to the sky, look at the stars.

Get grounded in reality again.

But that means moving, and he’s not currently in the position to do so.

If he’s exceedingly careful, if he doesn’t breathe and doesn’t blink too loudly, he can move Crowley without waking him. He doesn’t want to be away from him, but he has to. For a bit. He can’t think with the demon leaning against him.

He’s having a difficult time catching his breath.

Aziraphale slides to the side, inching Crowley’s head to the cushion beneath them. With the help of a small miracle, he lays the demon’s head down, and covers him with an afghan. Then he waits to see if Crowley will wake in the seconds following, observing the unnatural stillness of his body. Aziraphale always thought Crowley would look human while he sleeps, owing to the absence of his yellow eyes, but he doesn’t. With his flaming red hair, his paler than normal skin, and the slight glow that seems to ever possess supernatural entities, he looks as demonic as ever.

Aziraphale wonders why humans don’t seem to notice the demonic in Crowley’s appearance – well, post-Industrial Revolution humans anyway. Then again, humans don’t seem to notice a lot of things, even when they’re three feet in front of their noses.

He can’t complain. It makes blending in easier that way.

Aziraphale gets up from the sofa and starts walking. He has no pre-determined destination, he simply walks away, looking for fresher air to clear his head. He only gets a few feet when a sleepy voice behind him calls his name: “Aziraphale?”

“I … I’m here,” Aziraphale says. “I’m just …”

_Just what?_ he thinks. _What am I doing? Because aside from getting up and walking, I have absolutely no way of dealing with what took place in my own brain five minutes ago._

“Are you okay? You sound like you’ve been crying.”

“I … I have not,” Aziraphale says with a sniffle, not realizing till that very moment that he had been, at least, teary eyed.

Okay, so sometimes angels can be a bit oblivious, too.

“Another wing dream?” Crowley asks.

_Say yes_, Aziraphale tells himself. _Let Crowley examine your wings, reassure you everything’s all right._ And Aziraphale would accept his words as the Gospel truth even though they wouldn’t explain away the fears in his head.

He’d feel better … for now.

But those fears would remain. The dreams would come back, and next time, they wouldn’t be as kind.

What Crowley could tell him if he asks him outright might be painful, but never knowing could come closer than anything else to killing him.

Aziraphale turns back to the couch. He watches Crowley raise his arms over his head and yawn. _That’s a learned behavior_, Aziraphale thinks. Even if an angel or a demon felt anything close to exhaustion, they wouldn’t yawn. A learned behavior is something one picks up by being immersed in a culture. But the only way you would pick up something like yawning would be to be around someone when they yawned, repeatedly because it takes 66 days, on average for mortals, for something to become a habit. Probably more for a demon like Crowley.

Humans mostly yawn before they go to sleep at night, or when they wake up in the morning. So that’s when he would have to be …

Aziraphale gulps.

_Oh God. They were right._

_And so what if they were! Does he really have any right to be upset?_

Well, right or not, he is. No, not upset.

_Hurt_.

And it’s burning him up from the inside.

“Crowley?”

“Yes, angel?”

“Wha---what did you do?”

“What do you mean, what did I do? I just woke up not a minute ago. Same as you. I haven’t even had a chance to use the bathroom yet. Why?” Crowley takes a gander around. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s not what I mean.” Aziraphale walks back to the couch and re-takes his seat. “I mean, as a demon. What did you do?”

“You know what I did.” Crowley looks Aziraphale over quizzically through slitted lids, his voice guarded. “You did it, too, sometimes. Don’t you remember?”

“Yes, I do remember. I remember tossing out the odd temptation at a distance, putting thoughts in people’s heads but never interacting with them face to face if I could avoid it. But I can’t assume that you operated the same way.”

“What’s this about? Please tell me, because you’re not making any sense.”

“I …” Aziraphale stops, mouth open, but unable to get the words out. He has a sentence in his head, one that explains everything: the nightmare, the meeting in the park, Michael’s accusation. But like in the dream when he couldn’t stop himself from saying things he knew he shouldn’t, right now, he can’t seem to say the things he knows he should. “I can’t. I can’t say it out loud. I just … I can’t seem to find the words … all of a sudden.”

Crowley looks at him sideways, a bizarre recognition crossing his face, a confirmation of sorts, but it only lasts a second. “Give me your hand.”

“Why? Wha---what are you going to do?”

“Little trick left over from when my wings were white. One of the few things I can still remember how to do.” Crowley motions with his fingers for Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale gives it to him, bursting with curiosity. What does he mean? Well, okay, some of it Aziraphale understands. Whatever this is, it’s something he could do as an angel that he can still do as a demon. The part Aziraphale doesn’t understand is does it not require demonic power to do it? It mustn’t since the hands holding his don’t feel like they sizzle with demonic power. They’re cool, the way Aziraphale’s hands feel when he performs an angelic miracle.

With Crowley’s head bowed over Aziraphale’s hand, it looks like he might be praying.

So, where does this power come from?

“When’s the last time you’ve done this?”

“I don’t do it with humans,” Crowley says meditatively. “Sometimes with animals though. You haven’t lived until you’ve had a heart-to-heart with a pygmy marmoset. Their insights on life are fascinating.”

Crowley drops his head and sighs.

“So that’s what you think of me, is it, angel?” Crowley chuckles hollowly. “Of course it is. I’m a _demon_. I do the unforgivable. That’s what I am.”

“No, that’s not what I think of you,” Aziraphale says, assuming what Crowley must have seen. And he wants to keep reassuring him, but his curiosity gets the better of him. “Wait … can you do that all the time?”

“Not all the time. Only when your memories are fresh. Recent. Otherwise, I’d have to go digging and that would require …” Crowley doesn’t go into it, sidetracked from the original point - a much more important point. “I’ve never assaulted anyone, angel,” he says softly. “Never put a hand on someone without their consent. Never raped anyone, never had sex with anyone. Never even kissed anyone before.”

“But you’ve tempted people into those acts?”

“Yes, but I tend to stay away from sexual temptations when I can,” he admits, returning Aziraphale’s hand gently to the angel’s lap. “I choose to corrupt in other ways. It happens to be more fun. Some demons search out sexual temptation …” Crowley readjusts his seating, looking mildly disturbed “… like Hastur. He enjoys making grown men lust after children. But that’s not me. Never has been.” Crowley runs his hands through his hair, looking more than exhausted.

Looking genuinely heartbroken.

Aziraphale can’t hold him accountable for his sins, even if he _did_ commit them. He can’t help himself. He’s a demon. There are certain things he’s expected to do. From what Crowley has told him, Hell demands complete obedience. No exceptions. They’d destroy Crowley if he turned them down. Which is why their position now is so precarious. But throughout his past, he’s straddled so many lines, worked within so many grey areas.

_He’s one of the better demons_, Aziraphale reminds himself. The only Fallen angel Aziraphale has ever met who seems to remember what it means to _be_ an angel.

“Look, Aziraphale, I know this … this new Arrangement between you and me is going to take some time to iron out,” Crowley says on a sigh more pained than the last. “You’d think it wouldn’t, all things considered, but it will. It will for me, too. Sometimes I can’t help thinking …” He pauses, closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. But whatever he was about to say, he lets it go. “But I need you to believe me, angel. Believe _in_ me, the way you have for the past 6000 years. Or else, we won’t have any kind of a future together. Can you do that? Because I’d rather not do _this_ without you.” He waves a vague hand, but Aziraphale gathers his meaning. He’s referring to the world … and his existing in it.

Aziraphale knows because he feels much the same way.

He reaches out and takes Crowley’s hand. He can’t bend to nightmares. They’re in his head, doubts built up and playing out in exaggerated parodies of the truth. They aren’t warnings. They’re an all too vivid part of his imagination, bred from stress and paranoia.

Those are all very human derived explanations, but it’s also a part of going native, which, after 6000 years, they both definitely are.

Whatever comes from that … well, they’ll cross that bridge when they come to it.

But the point is what’s happening in his head isn’t real. The demon sitting in front of him, looking very much like Aziraphale punched him in the stomach with a flaming sledgehammer, yet turning his hand over to weave their fingers together, _is_.

“I can,” Aziraphale says with a nod. “And I will. I promise.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains some mild horror imagery and violence.

_“About a week had passed, and the position had begun to grow more complicated.”_

“Hmm, what …? What was that you said?”

_“I may mention in passing that I suffered a great deal during that unhappy week …”_

“Aziraphale? Mmph … who are you talking to …?”

_“… as I scarcely left the side of my affianced friend, in the capacity of his most intimate confidant.”_

“Aziraphale? What in the Devil …?”

_“What weighed upon him most was the feeling of shame, though we saw no one all that week, and sat indoors alone. But he was even ashamed before me, and so much so that the more he confided to me the more vexed he was with me for it.”_

“Aziraphale.”

_“He was so morbidly apprehensive that he expected that every one knew about it already, the whole town, and was afraid to show himself, not only at the club, but even in his circle of friends.”_

“Jesus Christmas …”

_“He positively would not go out to take his constitutional till well after dusk, when it was quite dark.”_

“Please, no …”

_“A week passed and he_ …”

“Aziraphale!?” A hand sneaks over the top of Aziraphale’s book and covers the page he’s reading. “What are you _doing!_?”

Aziraphale sighs dramatically, sliding the book out from under the offending hand. “You were asleep, so I decided to read.”

“You should be asleep, too. That’s why we came back here, remember? To _sleep_?”

“Technically, angels don’t need sleep.”

“Demons don’t need sleep, either, _technically_, and yet, here we are … in _bed_.”

Aziraphale assesses the disheveled demon – hair stuck up all over like chaotic licks of flame, the bulk a disastrous mess atop his head; creases from the pillowcase carving a map on his left cheek; his eyes, golden in this light, half-lidded and bleary from exhaustion. Aziraphale shakes his head, his eyes returning to his book. “I think you might be sleeping enough for the both of us, my dear. Why did you wake up, anyway?”

“You mumble when you read. _Loudly_. Plus the light you read by has gone from subtle glow to Death Valley in August. My eyeballs are charring through my eyelids. Not a very good look, if you ask me.”

Aziraphale glances around and notices, as Crowley had, that instead of a warm radiance focused mainly on the pages of his book, his holy aura had dialed up about seventeen notches, making the room look like they were trapped inside a gigantic tanning bed. “Oops. Sorry about that. I’ll turn it down.”

“What _are_ you reading?” Crowley snatches the book out his angel’s hands and squints at the spine. “_Demons_?” He snorts. “I suppose I should be flattered but Dostoyevsky? Darling, it’s only Thursday.”

“It was either this or _Crime and Punishment_.”

“Stellar choices. Remind me never to ask you to read me a bedtime story.”

“That’s fine. I’m not sure I have a copy of _The Little Engine That Could_ readily available anyhow.”

“_Nice_. Just so you know, since you’re taking pot shots at me, that one in particular did not land because _The Little Engine That Could _happens to be one of my favorite books. A remarkable work of literature, if you ask me. Brimming with nuance and symbolism,” Crowley grumbles, pulling the comforter over his head and burrowing underneath like … well, like a snake, if Aziraphale is being honest.

Aziraphale looks at the long lump of demon lying beside him and smiles. Even when he’s grumpy, he’s too adorable for words.

And Aziraphale loves him.

He snaps his fingers and the light that surrounds him blinks out.

“I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from sleeping,” he says in a voice Crowley feels more than he hears. It’s melodic, slipping through Crowley’s ears like a whisper of wind in Aziraphale’s attempt to not disturb him too much more. “I know how much you enjoy it. I’m sorry to say that I haven’t as of late.”

“Is it me?” Crowley asks, voice muffled by the thick blanket he refuses to climb out from under to continue this conversation. “Do I snore?”

“No.” Aziraphale gives his lower lip a nibble. “Well, you do snore a little, but that doesn’t keep me from sleeping.”

Crowley finally does peek out. He’s eyes, nose, and a mouth with the blanket still wrapped around him because that’s all he’s willing to expose. “Then what is it?”

“I …” Aziraphale’s last two nightmares scroll through his head like a reel to reel film set on fast forward. From the scenes that stand out, he sees Gabriel’s face grimacing at him, the rage that filled his eyes as he grabbed hold of Aziraphale’s wing and tore it off; he sees Michael and Uriel wedging him between them on that park bench, mocking him with thoughts of Crowley using lust to tempt humans … and all that that would entail; he sees that book with no words, just bugs and marks and scratches with no meaning, cradled in his arms. He wants to talk to Crowley about it. He desperately wants to talk with him. But how does he do that without sounding off his rocker? “I’d rather not discuss it. Not just yet, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It _is_ all the same to me. I _care_ about you. I want you happy. Happy here with me. We’ve spent thousands of years apart. I don’t want to be apart anymore.”

“Neither do I,” Aziraphale returns softly. “But I just … can’t.”

Crowley looks at his angel dressed in his two piece pajamas, sitting ram-rod straight with a book in his hands. He’s basically the same as bookshop Aziraphale, but here in his flat, distinguishable as relaxed only by virtue of his clothing choices.

“If you want, I can move to another room,” Aziraphale offers, “that way you can sleep in darkness. I know you prefer it.”

“That’s not what I want,” Crowley says. “Not at all. I want you here with me, light or no. But I think I can help you out, if you’d let me.”

“How’s that?”

“First of all, let’s close the book and put it away, shall we?” Crowley slides out of the comforter and puts out a hand for Aziraphale’s book. Aziraphale stares at the beckoning hand, reluctant to give it up, but only because he doesn’t want to sleep. He doesn’t even want to try. But there’s more going on here than just sleeping. They’re weaving their lives together. Normally, lying in bed with Crowley is something Aziraphale would enjoy. He knows Crowley enjoys it, too. Looks forward to it even.

They’re never going to get back to enjoying it together if Aziraphale doesn’t work things out.

He hands the book over. Crowley sets it carefully on the table beside him. Then, on second thought, he sticks it in a drawer and snaps his fingers to lock it.

Aziraphale tuts at the absurdity of that gesture since he could simply snap and unlock it again. Counteracting Crowley’s magic is as easy to Aziraphale as eating. Crowley knows that.

Crowley is sending Aziraphale a message.

If he wants his book back, he’s going to have to climb over Crowley to get it.

Crowley rolls back on his side facing his angel. “May I touch you?” he asks, the words catching in his throat,

Aziraphale’s right eyebrow shoots up. “That depends on _how_ you intend on touching me, I suppose.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. Aziraphale is stalling. He just wishes he knew _why_. “Do you trust me?”

“Against my better judgement,” Aziraphale teases.

“You’re full of zingers tonight, aren’t ya, angel?” Crowley tugs on the hem of Aziraphale’s shirt till he slides down the headboard and joins Crowley beneath the comforter. He positions Aziraphale on his side facing away from him, then wraps his arms around him and holds him tight. He adjusts, then readjusts until they both lay comfortably, Crowley’s nose buried in Aziraphale’s hair, breathing softly against his scalp. “There. How does that suit you?”

“It … it suits me just fine,” Aziraphale replies, overwhelmed by a dark but powerful sensation of love bleeding through his back where Crowley’s chest touches.

Aziraphale was flabbergasted the moment he realized Crowley loved him, when he realized how long Crowley had loved him. Lately, it’s how much Crowley loves him that leaves him speechless. He feels it now, filling his body with its warmth, pooling inside his stomach like a cup of rich cocoa.

“Good. Now try to get some sleep, will ya? Leave the heavy political dramas till sun up.”

***

“Hello, Azzziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s brow crinkles as an oppressive buzzing assaults his ears, encapsulated within a voice of indeterminate species. But he’s heard that voice before. It brings with it memories of Evil and destruction.

Satan and end-of-the-world level matters.

Crowley threatening several times to run away from Earth and leave Aziraphale to face annihilation alone.

It travels down his spine like a Bentley ablaze, held together only by a demon’s imagination, much in the same way that demon should be holding Aziraphale together now.

“Beelzebub?” Aziraphale turns, utterly perplexed. He’s not in Hell. He’s outdoors. But he’s not at the park this time. He’d suspected that if he managed to fall asleep, which he obviously has, he’d end up some place. He’d hoped for _no_ place – a void of solitude behind his eyes he could slip swiftly into, hide himself inside of. He knew that was farfetched. He hasn’t been searching for these dreams; they’ve been coming to him, holding a mirror to his eyes, forcing him to confront his fears. The park as a setting makes sense because it means something to him.

It means something to _them_ – him and Crowley.

_This_ is plain confusing.

He’s at Tadfield Air Base, the book he’d been carrying in his last two dreams replaced by his unlit sword. He has to admit both are a pleasant change, but he doesn’t understand. Why would he come here? Their mission in Tadfield finished after Adam thwarted the Apocalypse. He’d never even heard of the place before then, definitely never had an occasion to come here. And after, it became but a small denominator in his conscious.

He breathes in through his nose. The air smells damp, pungent, bitterly sweet, like freshly cut grass mixed with steer manure. The realism of it shocks him. The park hadn’t smelt like this. It hadn’t felt like this either. It had felt real, yes, but he chalks that up to how often he’s been there. This feels _hyper_-real, beyond three-dimensional.

So real that logic dictates it can’t be.

He knows he isn’t in Tadfield. He’s lying in bed with Crowley. As he drifted away, he could have sworn he felt Crowley kiss the back of his neck. He’d held on to that feeing, made it his anchor in the hopes that it would keep him from wandering too far. _That_ is reality, not this. Aziraphale doesn’t have lovely dreams when he sleeps. He doesn’t _need_ lovely dreams. He has a lovely life, a lovely future.

Or is he wrong? Is it the other way around?

He doesn’t know and that frightens him. It had been so clear before, so solid.

How does he decide?

Trying to sort it out is causing a pain between his eyes and in his chest.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, figuring that getting to the bottom of one mystery might help him unravel the other.

“I’ve come to make you an offer, Angel of the Easzzztern Gate,” Beelzebub purrs with false sincerity. “An offer you’d be ridiculouszzz to refuszzze.”

Aziraphale stands defiant, his sword lowered but ready to draw if needed. “Try me.”

Beelzebub starts slowly, metering their words, the way one would when speaking to someone inferior to them. “I would very much like for you to come work for uszzz.”

Aziraphale’s eyes pop like overheated kernels of corn. “Work for you _where_?”

“Why, downstairszzz, of course. In _Hell_.”

Aziraphale chuckles but it’s not born of humor. It’s a nervous, incredulous sputter. “Are you … are you _serious_? What makes you think I would ever agree to such a preposterous thing?”

“Think about it, Azzziraphale.” Beelzebub takes a casual step toward him, not minding at all the large blade in the angel’s hand. They don’t even spare it a glance, and that makes Aziraphale wary. “You do realizzze you’ve been working for our szzzide all along.”

“I …” Aziraphale’s voice trembles, Beelzebub’s statement hitting at the root of his deepest fear “… n-no, I haven’t.”

“Yeszzz, you have. _I_ know it, Satan knowszzz it, and _Gabriel_ knowszzz it, so the Almighty must know it by now. That’szzz why I’m here. To invite you to take the next step. Make it official.”

“O … official?”

“Fall, Azzziraphale,” Beelzebub says, the closest thing to a smile Aziraphale has ever seen on their face nudging up the corners of their mouth, “and become one of uszzz.”

Aziraphale’s head twists on his neck. “What? _No_! I … I can’t do that! I’m an _angel_! I was put on Earth to do _good_!”

“But you also tempt. You’ve been doing it for Crowley. You do szzzome tempting, and he doeszzz some blessing. You know …” They lift a finger to the side of their nose and wink “Your _Arrangement_?”

Aziraphale’s hands shake, the sword he’s clutching vibrating in his grasp. “How … how do you know about that?”

“Demonszzz are a hive mind. For the most part, what Crowley knowszzz, we know aszzz well.”

Aziraphale feels a sudden unsinkable cold pass through him as 6000 years of secrets he thought they’d been hiding expertly cross the demon’s eyes and settle in the cruel twist of their smile.

“And in regardszzz to you, angel …” Beelzebub lowers their voice along with their eyes, looking at Aziraphale through stunted lashes “… I know quite a lot.”

“What … what do you know?”

“Join uszzz and I’ll tell you.”

“I … I can’t.”

“Yeszzz, you can,” they press, annoyed the way they had been with Adam. Adam had stared them down with collected calm, the wisdom of ages by his side. But Aziraphale doesn’t have Adam’s calm, and he doesn’t have backup. “Think of it. You’d have _power, _Azzziraphale. More power than they grant you upstairszzz. And reszzzpect. You and the traitor …” Beelzebub pinches their lips together and recovers “… I mean, the _demon_ Crowley, could work in concert. You could still do …” They stop again, swallow hard, skewered by the next words they speak “… good deedszzz, just with an evil twiszzzt. The way you have been already. No need to make too large a change. That should szzzuit your needszzz.”

“Not too large a change?” Aziraphale chokes. “You want me to become a _demon_! A … a Fallen angel! That sounds like a rather large change to me!”

“Crowley must have told you about hiszzz Fall, hmm?” Beelzebub nods knowingly, theorizing the reason behind Aziraphale’s hesitation. “How devastating it waszzz for him? Fell szzztraight from Heaven, he did. He waszzz one of the Almighty’s favoriteszzz, too.”

“_Sauntered vaguely downward_ is how _he_ puts it,” Aziraphale corrects. He feels the need. He doesn’t like Beelzebub talking on Crowley’s behalf.

“You’re already on your way though, aren’t you? You’ve been inching down gradually over the centurieszzz. For you, it’d be more like a skip than a Fall.”

“Why are you making me this offer? What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” they say, but behind their dead eyes, something shrewd lurks. Calculating. To put it bluntly … _Evil_. “Hell needszzz numberszzz. Face it, you’re a mediocre angel at beszzzt, Azzziraphale. But you’d be a Duke in Hell. Higher in rank than Crowley. He’d answer to you.”

“What makes you think he’d listen to me?” Aziraphale says with an honest to God laugh this time. “He _barely_ listened to you.”

“I can make certain of it. I’ll keep him under constant szzzurveillance. In chainszzz, if you prefer.” That thought, the image they’re building in their head of Crowley under lock and key, makes them grin so wide it splits their face in two. “Think about it.”

“I don’t need to think about it! What you’re proposing is literally _unthinkable_!” Aziraphale lifts his sword threateningly but it doesn’t ignite. Because Aziraphale isn’t being entirely honest. The thought of Falling isn’t as abhorrent to him as it once was. He’s thought about Falling once or twice.

So he can be with Crowley with no complications.

Beelzebub drops all pretense of pleasantry the second those words pass Aziraphale’s lips. “We _will_ have him back, angel. We will have the traitor in our rankszzz once more, and then you’ll never szzzee him again. Never, ever, _ever_ szzzeee him again. But if you Fall, the two of you can be together forever. Beszzzt to decide quickly. I’m not a patient demon.”

“No! I won’t join you!” Aziraphale yells, his sword finally bursting into a pillar of orange flame. “And neither will he! He won’t serve under Hell’s thumb again!”

Beelzebub shakes their head, the expression in their eyes murderous. “You have made the wrong decision, Azzziraphale. And now, you will suffer the consequenceszzz.”

Beelzebub snaps their fingers. Aziraphale anticipates, snaps his fingers to counter, but it’s not as easy deflecting a Prince of Hell, he discovers, as it is Crowley. Beelzebub doesn’t budge but Aziraphale flies backward, hitting the rust-infected wall of a munition’s paddock some hundred feet behind him.

“If you refuszzze to Fall on your own …” He hears Beelzebub’s voice follow him as he soars up and gets flung, hitting the same wall a second time and leaving a dent “… then I will make you Fall!”

He flies up again, climbing higher and higher. He balls his fists, braces his form, and tries to stop himself. He’s powerful enough to slow down but not to stop. He soars up above the clouds then stops short, hovering miles in the air. There he floats, trapped inside some other entity’s power, praying that another angel, or maybe even _God_, has intervened. But a second later, he free falls, the air underneath him battering his back, causing it to bend like a bow. When he lands, instead of impacting the metal shed, he hits the asphalt with a dizzying thud, skidding across the ground like a stone on the water.

“You could have had _everything_, Azzziraphale!” Beelzebub bellows. “Everything you’ve ever wanted! Power! Reszzzpect! That diszzzhonored, traitorous demon for your own! But now, you’re going to Hell a priszzzoner! No! A _szzzlave_!”

“Over … my … discorporated … body …” Aziraphale groans, wondering briefly (when his mind stops reeling and everything makes sense again) how in the world his body hasn’t given out on him already.

He’s tossed across the tarmac and lands on his stomach, the rebound forcing his face to hit after. He can’t see himself, but he knows he’s bruised badly. One eye socket and his nose might be broken. He may be missing some teeth. Nothing he can’t fix but still. His sword, knocked from his grasp, bounces away, then shatters into a hundred pieces, its fire going out in each one as it separates from the whole. Aziraphale could miracle it back together in a snap, but what good would it do? Beelzebub is too fast for him, too powerful. Aziraphale rises to his knees, determined to get to his feet, but a pair of black derbies and fishnet socks comes up on him and kicks him to the ground.

“Over your diszzzcorporated body, you say?” Beelzebub snorts. “Aszzz you wish.”

Aziraphale peers up at his tormentor. Through swelling lids he sees Beelzebub transform, confronting Aziraphale in their true demon form – boil-ridden flesh dripping from their face as shimmery black skin pushes to the surface; liquid eyes, round and black, soulless to their depths, grow and segment, becoming a brilliant blood red; spindly arms sprout from their sides, thin translucent wings from their back. Their lips purse and stretch forming a long proboscis, which emits a dreadful slurping when they breathe in. The buzzing that surrounds them increases ten-fold when they beat those wings. Aziraphale throws his hands over his ears to keep his mortal eardrums from bursting.

“Aszzz the humanszzz szzzay …” Beelzebub buzzes, their voice ringing with a high-pitched whine that makes Aziraphale’s head pulse “… szzzeee you in Hell!”

They put a foot to the small of his back and shove down, forcing him through the cement quicker than he can react. Through layers and layers of rock he’s driven. A violent, air-sucking heat forms around him, creating a vacuum that pulls him through the Earth, straight to its core. The churning, broiling magma blinds him. His hair sizzles, his skin burns, his clothes disintegrate. His screams, his prayers, his calls to God and the angels for help, his pleas to Crowley, go unheard. Unanswered.

Deep inside his soul, he seethes with anger, a hatred to rival the molten iron that’s begun to envelope him. He feels his human form meld with the metal in a vulgar flesh and blood soup, but he has yet to discorporate, yet to return to Earth, or to Heaven. His bones and muscles render down to molecules and float away, but his consciousness remains, confused as to his fate until he realizes this is it. This is where he’ll be remanded - the core of the Earth his prison.

One place Crowley might never think to look for him, and where God, apparently, is content to see him rot.

***

When Aziraphale wakes, he’s no longer lying on the mattress, but sprawled on the marble floor. He scrambles to his feet before he even registers that he has a corporeal form again. His heel hits a wet spot and he nearly falls backward, but he stops himself before his feet catch air.

“Wha---what … what’s happening? Where am I?” he mutters, his brain taking longer to catch on before his body, which finds the edge of the mattress and sits. Shivering with cold after having been a primordial stew for the past who knows how long, Aziraphale takes a moment to reset and rewind, starting with the simple and working up from there.

“Where … where am I?” he mumbles, staring at his reflection in the polished floor, his eyes burning blue. “I’m at Crowley’s flat,” he answers himself. “In his bedroom.” He swallows, relaxing after that correct response. “What am I doing? Well, I’m supposed to be getting some sleep.” He looks up at the ceiling and chuckles. “Good job I’m doing with that one, huh?” He says it louder than necessary, hoping Crowley will answer, ask him if he’s had a nightmare. This time, he’ll say yes. He’ll climb into his demon’s arms and tell him everything. This was the straw that broke the camel’s back – Aziraphale sees it. This is where his other dreams were leading him. It’s one thing to have doubts about his relationship with Crowley. Those are easily fixable. All he need do is look at Crowley, catch him staring at him over his morning coffee, go out of his way to hold Aziraphale’s door open for him, drive him to the latest estate auction in search of his fifteenth copy of the same first edition, take him to lunch at his favorite restaurant.

All he has to do is tell Crowley he loves him, and hear Crowley tell him he loves him back like a reflex, no thought required, and those doubts will go away.

But doubts about his purpose on this planet, about who he is, who he’s been all along – for that he needs guidance. He’d kneel down and pray about it, but if these past few nights have proved anything it’s that the Almighty doesn’t seem too concerned with his nightmares or his doubts.

But Crowley doesn’t answer, doesn’t chuff, doesn’t snore, and Aziraphale sighs. _Let the poor boy sleep_, he scolds himself. The nightmare is over. Aziraphale has no wish to go back to sleep so it won’t be returning tonight. No need to wake him up. They have all day ahead of them. He can talk to him then.

Aziraphale climbs underneath the comforter, shimmying back in search of Crowley’s body. He doesn’t get too far when his frazzled brain comes up with a masterful idea. He’ll sneak over his wily serpent and retrieve his book. Won’t it ruffle Crowley’s scales to wake up and find Aziraphale has stolen his book back? But Aziraphale won’t let the boy seethe for long. He’ll cross the divide, offer up his nightmare in apology for defying his fiend’s wishes.

Then they’ll go from there.

He slides back out of the bed, deciding the best course of action would be to tiptoe around the end instead of climbing over Crowley and risk waking him up. He peeks over his shoulder to make sure he’s still asleep.

But the demon lump that should be snoozing by his side isn’t there.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale pats Crowley’s side of the bed, checking to see if he didn’t become a snake unintentionally while snatching a few z’s. It’s rare, but it has been known to happen.

He feels nothing but bunched blanket and the mattress.

“Crowley?” He hops out of bed and searches the flat, leading with his mind, his powers extending to every wall, every room, every conceivable crevice. But the angel can’t detect him – not a thought, not a hair of him, not the signature his power leaves behind, not his smell.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale races from the bedroom to the bathroom, then down the hall to the office, his aura a blinding beam guiding him. “Crowley … Crowley … _Crowley_!!”

Aziraphale checks every closet, which he admits is asinine, but then he checks them twice. He looks out the window and spots Crowley’s Bentley parked by the curb, waiting patiently for its owner. As a last, desperate resort, Aziraphale tries summoning him, reciting the demonic spell Crowley taught him that should only be used in case of an emergency. _It’ll bring me back from anywhere in this plane,_ Crowley had told him. _But be careful. It will attract demon attention so only use it when you have no other choice._

Aziraphale never has till now.

Aziraphale recites it repetitively, playing Russian Roulette each time he does, but it doesn’t bring Crowley back.

Which means his demon isn’t simply gone from the flat, or Earth.

He’s gone from their dimension entirely.


End file.
